The Man With the Black Robe: A Roger of Conte Bio
by Cheezy Frumaja
Summary: THis is the story of Roger's life--from birth, to sorcery training, to romance, to vying for the throne of Tortall--it's his biography, and it'll make you wonder how he never succeeded in getting what he wanted. warning--it gets long! please r/r!
1. Default Chapter

Tamora Pierce  
Cheezy Frumaja  
  
Title: The Man With the Black Robe: A Roger Biography  
Summary: Basically, Roger's life story-the horror, the sorcery training, the romance, and the plotting. Should make you change your mind about whether he had a reason to vie for the throne or not. R/r, kindly?  
Rating: R  
Disclaimers: well, you know whom Jon, Roger, Alanna, and the rest of them belong to, don't you? But Roger's parents are mine, as well as his long-dead siblings. (Hey, no one ever said he was an only child, and I'm taking advantage of that.)  
  
Chapter 1: Early Childhood  
Roger of Conte was born in the midst of a heated argument between his parents, Duke Firenze and Duchess Rachyl. That was their problem-arguing. They could never seem to stop arguing and fighting, and even in this case, it had turned physical. Even in front of the healer, who had been trying to concentrate on pulling the boy from inside his mother. By accident, Firenze had struck the newborn's brown-haired head as it was appearing. Little Roger, as they had just decided to call him (this was the subject of the argument), was squalling by the time his breathing canals had been cleared. Of course, this was a normal infant thing to do, but in his case, the very windowpanes were rattling.  
Rachyl stopped screaming long enough to acknowledge that the healer was now placing a red, screaming baby in her arms. "Well, Firenze, it's final. The last name either of us shouted was Roger, so that's his name. And I said it, so don't even TRY to take credit for it. Now leave my sight."  
Fuming, the Duke of Conte stormed out of the room, slamming the door loud enough to make the healer cover her ears. Roger squealed louder.  
"Oh, what a handsome son I have." For the first time that day, Rachyl smiled and sighed. And then she promptly fell asleep.  
  
  
The first few days after Roger's birth, he spent the time lying on his back, staring silently at the ceiling of his room. With only a mere housekeeper to care for him, and guess when he needed to be fed or changed (for, after all, he was silent), he grew despondent. Without out milk from a mother's breast, he was thin for an infant, only adding to his lackadaisical attitude. When he next saw his parents, he did not recognize them. This was months after his birth. They came as he was still staring at the ceiling, silent and still.  
"Oh, Firenze, you're such an irresponsible parent! Look-Roger's dead! Just lying there with his eyes open! I hate you, this is all your fault..."  
"Well, as I recall, Rachyl, you never went to him after he was born, and a child always needs the mother more. You are stupid and ignorant, you wench! And besides, he's not even my son, seeing as the last person you slept with before your pregnancy was that retired knight Henry. So, therefore, I do not see why I have any obligation as his so called father."  
"How dare you suggest that I committed adultery against you? You dishonorable pig! You-you-bastard!"  
"Well-it's only evidence, fool," Firenze spat. "You haven't slept with me for two years, whereas the last man you invited into your room was him, and that was nine months ago!"  
All the while, the makeshift nanny sat in the corner of the room in bewilderment and horror, not able to believe her ears. However, she refused to intervene, believing that she would somehow get violently caught in the crossfire and die a horrible death at the hands of the Duke and Duchess. And as for little, innocent baby Roger, he only stared at the ceiling, wishing in his own infant language that he knew how to cover his ears. However, only being three months old, he hadn't the coordination to do so. The fight went on a few more minutes, until the two royal figures scuffled out into the hall and the nanny shut the door.  
"There, there, child, now take a little nap, that's a good..." she stopped as a ball of green magical substance blasted through the door, narrowly missing her head and crashing through the glass window. "Firenze at his magical tricks again..." she muttered, spreading the blankets neatly over little Roger, who only blinked and sighed. "It's a pity you had to have those devils for parents."  
  
And so Roger grew up in his little room, thinking all the while in his silent way that the nanny was his own mother, never knowing her name or his parents. When he finally learned to walk and started having real meals brought up from the kitchens, he was surprised mildly that there was a world outside of his room. There were colors, not just the drab gray and white and raw wood of his room, and the occasional cloudy blue if he strained to see through the window.  
The nanny accompanied him wherever he went, making sure he did not trip over steps or legs of tables and chairs. Roger quietly marveled at the gilt furniture and the velvety upholstery, the silver decorations and the colorful woven tapestries, his wide sapphire eyes glancing every which way. Every once in a while, the nanny would talk randomly to him, not expecting him to understand, and would point out objects and name them.  
When next the boy learned to talk, the first thing he ever uttered was a sentence. "What's my name, nanny?" For the nanny, though she would chatter to him, had never remembered to teach him his name. She was so surprised she jumped and spun around wildly trying to find who had spoken, until she realized it was Roger. 'But he isn't more'n a year old,' she thought dazedly. Taken aback, she replied,  
"Why, Roger of Conte, little dear."  
She didn't bother to tell his testy parents that he'd finally learned to speak, fearing yet another heated row in which one parents would claim the other was at fault for never taking care of Roger, and so on. That was the last thing anyone needed. And the year-old spoke again.  
"Do I know magic?"  
"You should, dear. Your parents both have The Gift, so it ought to have been handed down to you." The nanny did not mention that his mother had had an affair which caused her pregnancy, believing anything on that subject not fit for a child's ears.  
"Do I have a brother?"  
"Yes. You have two brothers, but they were killed a long time ago in a battle against Scanran raiders. They were Gary and Nicholass." At this, the nanny was stony-faced.   
"Are you my mother?"  
The nanny sighed, shaking her head. "No. I'm just a housekeeper assigned to taking care of you. Your parents...well, you've seen them, but only for moments. Their names are Rachyl and Firenze. Perhaps you'll see them today." Secretly, the nanny hoped she wouldn't have to introduce Roger to his parents, fearing that the incident would have a negative impact on the poor child's mind. Unfortunately, she happened to stumble upon the very couple fighting violently in an office. Before she could turn away and scoop up the child, Firenze saw her and called to her.  
"Ah, Helga, come here for a second and show my stupid wife that SHE is the one that left this stain in the plush carpet and that you could have easily cleaned it. See, my lying wife claims that the stain is years old, when I could've sworn it wasn't there minutes ago!"  
Inwardly, Helga, (for that was her name), thought, 'what a pointless and stupid argument.' But she obeyed doggedly and slouched into the room, the curious Roger following close behind. She motioned for him to leave the room for his own safety, but he stayed at her skirts. Quietly, she murmured to him, "Them'll be your parents, child. Rachyl and Firenze." AS she finished, Rachyl started in on her. 'Mithros, what have they gotten me into?' she questioned herself as the irate kraken-like woman screamed. Roger hid in Helga's skirts.  
After the argument had gone on a while, Helga being completely ignored for all that she was ordered into the room, Roger began to get agitated. Hardly a domineering or powerful figure, still in swaddling clothes, with skinny little chicken legs and thin arms, he yelled at the top of his lungs, "DON'T YOU TWO MONSTERS KNOW HOW TO SHUT UP?"  
Absolutely pole-axed, both Firenze and Rachyl looked down upon the toddler. His dark brown hair was frizzy and wild, due to his annoyance. His face, still cherub-like, had the expression of extreme anger. His parents just stared. "Who's that?" they chorused. "A little babe, and he can talk?"  
Having just learned his name, Roger replied calmly, though still angry, "My name is Roger, and I'm your son."  
Rachyl fainted dead away. Firenze stumbled into a chair, hit his head when falling to the floor, and came to the same fate as his wife. Helga and Roger stood, chuckling and shaking their heads.  
"Shall we leave them here, little one?" Helga inquired, her old, rheumy eyes dancing with glee.  
"Why not? I have no pity on them, as I hardly know them."  
Still impressed by the year-old's extensive vocabulary, Helga muttered. "You brilliant little child. You must be strongly Gifted, young fledgling." She whistled, and led the boy downstairs to meet the rest of the manor. So wrapped up in her their worlds, neither of the two realized Roger was glowing orange from his Gift.  
  
  
  



	2. The Gift

The Man With the Black Robe: A Roger Bio  
Cheezy Frumaja  
  
Chapter 2: The Gift  
  
Roger grew up hardly knowing his parents. After the day in which he first saw them having a row over his father's carpet, he decided to himself that they were idiotic, filthy beings and that he never wanted to see them again. Secretly, Helga the nanny agreed. "What a brilliant child I've brought up," she would tell herself, satisfied, as Roger toddled about the manor. After meeting his parents, he decided to meet everyone else who lived there, and everyone loved meeting him, exclaiming,  
"Oh, what a charming little fellow! And he already talks!"  
And, every once in a while, stranger things would happen while Roger was around, other than his being able to talk at an early age. One day, while visiting the cooks and scullery maids in their large kitchen, the torches about the room suddenly guttered and blew out, though there was no wind, and an orange glow settled upon everything.  
Another day, while meeting Ben the hostler in the stables, the hay and chaff in every stall abruptly settled in one monstrous pile in the middle of the building. It seemed to possess a certain orangey shine. But no one ever figured out that all this was Roger's doing. Even Roger hadn't found it out. But he was surprised, when years later, amusing himself by constructing a house of twigs by the forest, that by staring hard at it and concentrating on it, it burst into flames.  
Delighted, he made another, and put his mind to setting it afire. 'Flame, flame, flame,' he silently chanted. They began to smoke slightly, the breeze twisting it as it curled up to the trees above. A few sparks ignited. And finally, it was consumed by orange fire. Roger looked at his hands. He screamed, "I'm on fire! I'm on fire!" until he realized that he wasn't hot at all. His hands were their normal temperature, but they were glowing orange. A butler came running, alarmed by the little six-year-old's calls of distress.   
"Young master! Roger! Wait there, I have water!" The man shifted the bucket of water to his other hand, and when he reached the boy, Roger was silent, staring at his hands in wonder.  
"Oh, never mind, William, I guess I'm not on fire. Look at my hands though." The butler obeyed, puzzled, frazzled and slightly annoyed that there had been a false alarm.   
"I see nothing, young master. What is it I should be seeing?"  
"My hands-they're glowing orange. And see the pile of ash? That was a twig house, and I set in on fire using my mind!"  
"Silly boy, your hands aren't orange. And it's just your Gift, is all. No need to be worried."  
"You mean, my magic?" The boy asked excitedly, his blue-sapphire eyes nearly as large as saucers.  
"Yes, your magic. What else would it be?" The butler William answered exasperatedly. When Roger looked confused, wondering why he was expected to know, William continued. "You mean to say your parents never told you that you had the Gift?"  
"I've barely ever talked to my parents."  
William shook his head, dumped out the useless bucket of water, and stalked off heatedly. However, he didn't fail to tell the rest of the house that Roger had discovered his gift.   
"Ah, so that's what happened in my kitchen."  
"Now I understand..."  
"So that's what the little boy did with the hay."  
"Wonder if his parents know?"  
They didn't. After all, they were immersed in a fight concerning how to tax their under-lords on the land. When they finally did hear, yet another argument flamed up-"Who the hell's gonna teach him to control himself?"  
  
The unlikely married couple came to a decision one month later, the day Roger celebrated his seventh birthday with the manor's staff. Helga had directed the cooks in baking a delicious, giant, cream filled pastry topped with sugar-spun dragons and hurroks and centaurs, and every other immortal creature they could think of to amuse the little master. Just as Roger finished his small piece, (For he was never a large eater), and began opening his first present of a wooden toy sword, His mother and father stormed into the room, disheveled and red.  
"Ralph, dear," his mother began.  
"My name's Roger, mother."  
"Roger," she corrected herself, trying to smile, but ending up grimacing anyway from a lump forming on her back due to the fighting. "Dear, we're sending you away."  
Bewildered, the little Roger, rubbed a hand through his dark brown hair, blinking. "Why? Where?"  
"We've decided that you need to control your Gift, because it might cause an accident in the house. And, seeing as you're already talented, we are going to send you to the convent near Corus to learn to be a sorcerer.  
Roger was delighted, but all the same, sad. He had grown to love the servants around the manor, who were always cheerful and kind to him, giving him little treats and presents every now and then. But he also wanted to learn to do more things than setting piles of twigs on fire. "Will I ever see the manor again?"  
"During the summer," Firenze answered. "And we'll come and visit you on midwinter."  
"Separately," Rachyl added, though both she and Firenze knew Roger could care less if he ever saw them. Helga noted this, and spoke up quietly.  
"Please, your Grace," she addressed Firenze. "If I may visit him at the convent, I would be happy. And I'm sure Roger would as well."  
"Please?" Roger spoke up on her behalf. "Indeed, I hardly know the two of you, so it would be more sensible if she were the one to see me."  
It took no time to decide the matter. For the first time, the Duke and Duchess arrived at an agreement without an argument. "As you wish." They left the room. Roger finished opening his presents in silence, but thanked everyone at the end, and left for his room to pack his clothing and personal belongings.   
"I'm going to miss you all," he said woefully, misty eyed. Helga dabbed at her eyes, and embraced him. The servants waved, wiping at their tears.  
  
In the space of two days, Roger was packed, and ready to go. Helga and the hostler rode off with him, accompanying him to the convent. Even he knew he was a bit young to be going to the convent to learn sorcery, but he also realized it was for the best. No one could afford to have the manor in which they lived burnt to the ground.  
Upon arrival, the Daughters of the convent warmly greeted the trio, though they were confused to find that their new student was only seven years of age. After everything was cleared, Ben and Helga made their tearful goodbyes, leaving their beloved Roger with his trunks and the Daughters.  
"Mind you take care of him," Helga called as she and the hostler disappeared over the hills, waving. Roger waved sadly back, and followed the Daughters inside.  
  
  
  
A/N: How are you liking it so far? Let me know by giving me a review, see that little box below, you fill in your name and email and review...yeah...--Mychy  



	3. First Meal

The Man With the Black Robe: A Roger of Conte Bio  
Cheezy Frumaja  
  
Chapter 3: First Meal  
The Daughters of the convent took Roger in with his luggage, and introduced themselves. The tall, thin one with the slowly graying hair was Tillaine of Marti's Hill, and the short, squat one with the tan, weathered skin and thick, black hair was Rondi of Tasride. Both were cheerfully disposed, and the asked him questions about everything they could possibly think of. Roger was quite overwhelmed.   
"Do you like horseback riding?"  
"No."  
"What about swordplay?"  
"I guess..."  
"I hear you've already learned to use parts of your Gift. Is it true?"  
"Yes."  
"And how old are you?"  
"Seven years."  
"Wow. Did your parents teach you?"  
"I hardly know my parents."  
At this, all conversation stopped. Tillaine dropped the bag she was carrying, and Rondi's mouth hung open. Roger just stared at the two, wondering why they had suddenly stopped talking at him. Finally, Rondi asked, "Why?"  
"Well, I thought all children were brought up by their housekeepers. I never saw my parents until I was one year old, though Helga says my mother held me when I was born. The next time I saw them was two days ago."  
"No, honey," Tillaine said, bewildered. "Most children are brought up by their parents. Why didn't you ever see them?"  
"Well, for one, they were constantly fighting, both verbally and physically. I don't understand why they didn't separate. So I mostly heard them instead of seeing them."  
Rondi and Tillaine exchanged looks. "Oh, dear," they muttered, simultaneously clucking their tongues. Finally, Rondi broke the tension, saying, "Well, well, Roger, let's get you to your new room, and then we'll show you to the mess hall. Dinner will be in a few moments." The two Daughters hurried along ahead of the boy, whispering in hushed voices to each other. After a few more corridors, they reached a door that had Roger's name chalked on a slate upon it. Tillaine extracted a large ring of keys from a belt at her waist, and inserted one into the lock.  
"So this is my room?" Roger inquired, looking around. The chamber was sparsely decorated; simple, green curtains hung at the one window, and white and green sheets were spread over the bed. In one corner were a small wooden desk and chair, and by the fireplace lay a green and white braided rug. By the foot of the low bed sat Roger's trunk, unopened, and by the wall nearest the door was a tall chest of drawers. In the far corner of the room, a door led to the privy and changing room. Tillaine set Roger's bag by the trunk, and Rondi began naming a list of instructions regarding care of the quarters.  
"There will be no need to lock doors-we are in charge of any keys. In the mornings after you leave for classes, a crew of maids will neaten up your room, so don't bother cleaning. You're here to learn sorcery and not housekeeping. All doors must be closed and all candles out by the last bell of the evening, and no guests in the room after the bell before that. After classes end in the mid-afternoon, you may study in your room privately or in the library with a group of people. Mind you return any books you have used. Proper robes shall be given to you after dinner; you will don them for classes, but you may wear anything you like for meals and free times. And last, and most important of all, if you play tricks on any of the maids, you shall do the rest of your laundry and bedding for the rest of the year. Understand?"  
Roger gave one last look at his room and nodded before the Daughters led him through the hallways to the mess hall. Tillaine looked at him for a while as they walked. "Roger, how old did you say you were?"  
"Seven years."  
"You are very tall for your age. Perhaps the height of an average ten year old."  
"Really?" Roger furrowed his brow a bit. "I never noticed. But then, I've never been around children my age before. Or any children, for that matter. Helga, my nanny, says I had two older brothers, but they died in a Scanran raid."  
"Oh," said Rondi, pouring sympathy into her voice. "Well, that's too bad. They must have been young."  
"I don't know."  
Tillaine pushed open a large, wooden door, showing Roger the crowded room. "This, dear, is the mess hall. You'll be having all your meals here, as you can see. Since this is your first year, We'll find you a table with boys closer to your age. Every time, you must sit by the Eastern wall. That is the boys' side of the room. The other side belongs to the girls."  
"Okay." Roger was still taking in all the sights of the room; the people lined up with trays and plates of food, the long tables against the walls, and the aging man and woman sitting at their own table at the head of the room. He turned to Rondi. "Will I have classes with the girls as well as the boys?"  
Rondi chuckled kindly. "Only dancing, for that requires a partner. Everything else you will be learning with the boys-magic, etiquette, mathematics, history, and writing and reading. The girls will be busy learning womanly crafts, which I'm sure you wouldn't be bothered to do."  
Roger shrugged indifferently, and picked up a tray and plate at the end of the food line. "I wouldn't know. I've never tried them."  
"Well, dear, that's a given." Rondi shook with silent laughter and picked up her own plate ware. Tillaine had already managed to get to the head of the line. "Here, Roger, try the chicken. It's always good. And don't forget your vegetables."  
'She sounds like Helga,' Roger mused, obeying. When his plate was full, he followed Rondi as she wound her way around the tables. They reached one that was nearly full except for two seats, and they sat down. But no sooner than they had done that, the old man at the head of the room stood up. All around Roger, everyone else did, too. He followed suit. The man spoke.  
"Mother Goddess, we thank thee for the meal which you have placed before us. So mote it be."  
"So mote it be," the hall chorused, and they sat down again. At once, Rondi explained,  
"Roger, the man that gave the blessing, that's Lord Alexander of Giram."  
"Oh, I see. He runs the school?"  
"Yes, him and his wife, Lady Rebeka. You're to be presentable whenever you're in their presence. If you're in trouble, it's Lord Alex you'll answer to."  
"Ah." Roger nodded, and started to eat, relishing every bite, and eyeing Lord Alex. He had white hair, very little of it in a short-cropped crown around his shiny, bald head. He had a small goatee framing a strong jaw, and practically no eyebrows above his gray eyes. His wife still had chestnut brown hair, though it was dominated by steel gray streaks. Gracefully arched eyebrows sat high above soft, emerald green eyes. The two of them had commanding appearances, and had an aura around them that people seemed to respect.  
Roger then took a look at the boys around him. He felt as though he was taller than all of them, though all were sitting. Left of him sat Rondi, the only female at the table. At his right sat a pudgy, pompous looking boy of about eleven, his black hair cropped close to his head. His small black eyes were sunk into his head, and his nose turned perfectly upwards. He reminded Roger of a badger.  
Across from him was a boy of twelve with unruly blond hair that stuck up at odd angles and a thin face. He donned a wry smile even while he was eating, and chatted loudly with friends to his left and right, his olive green eyes dancing. His friends were just as cheerful, one with wavy brown hair and friendly hazel eyes and rosy, weathered cheeks, and another with darker blond hair and bright blue eyes and dimples on his cheeks. The three of them appeared to be joking about some prissy girls across the room from them.  
"Oh, just look at THAT one, she practically stabs at her food because her fork's completely straight! The other one looks like a miniature queen, or something. Just look at her face! She just looks down her nose at everyone, even when she eats! I don't know how the rest of them can stand her."  
"Well, I can," said the brown haired boy to his left. "At least she doesn't try to lead when she dances! I couldn't say the same for most of the others."  
"Oh, shut up, Henri, you're covering up!" yelled the dark blond. "You LIKE her. Remember last week, trying to make her a rose using your Gift? And it burst into flame when you gave it to her?"  
Henri, as Roger now knew he was called, grinned and stared at his rapidly emptying plate, stabbing at a piece of asparagus. "I can name a few sweethearts of yours, Jakob," he replied evilly.  
"Yeah, I could, too," contributed the blond.  
"Keep out of this, Gavin," Jakob warned, beginning to frown. "Let's forget about all this anyway. Anyone know who the kid is across from us?"  
Roger was startled to hear himself referred to, but stayed silent, looking at each of them.  
"Well, what's your name?" asked Henri. "Are you new?"  
"I'm Roger of Conte. And I just got here today."  
"Conte...Conte...sounds familiar, doesn't it?" Gavin said, thinking aloud.  
"Of course it does," Jakob snapped. "He's the king's nephew!"  
"Wait, wait...the king's nephew?" countered Gavin. "That would have to mean he's only seven! Maybe it's a different Conte."  
Roger started to shake with silent laughter. A different Conte? No wonder Gavin got made fun of, if he was always like this.  
"Mithros! I never knew anyone as stupid as you!" Henri shouted, a bit too loudly, smacking his forehead. To Roger's left, Rondi gave the boy a reproving glare. "Sorry, Rondi," he mumbled. Roger decided to intercede.  
"Wait a minute, all of you. I AM seven years old, and there ISN'T another Conte besides the duke and the king."  
The three boys just stared at him agape. Roger felt himself shrink. "You're seven years old?" Jakob whispered, mystified. "But-how-you must be some kind of genius!"  
"trust me, all I know how to do is light a pile of sticks on fire with my Gift, and that's it. I'm NOT a genius, at least as far as I know."  
"By Mithros, yes, you are!" Gavin said, disagreeing. "I couldn't light sticks on fire until I was ten, and a teacher had to direct me through it! And you're telling me you're not a genius?"  
"Wait, though, Gavin. Maybe he's lying and he really is ten," Henri argued.  
"Aw, shut up. We all know Roger of Conte, son of Duke Firenze, was born seven years ago," Gavin explained, punching Henri's shoulder for emphasis. The two of them were fighting the rest of the meal, and so Roger ignored them and talked with their friend Jakob.  
"So, Roger, you really wanted to become a sorcerer, eh?"  
"Well, actually I hadn't thought about it. Once my parents saw that I could do stuff with my Gift, they thought I might cause accidents around the house and wanted me out. So they sent me here. But now that I think about it, I really do want to be a sorcerer. What about you?"  
"Well, since I'm extraordinarily clumsy, I didn't think it a good idea to be a knight like most boys. So I told my parents I wanted to do something with my Gift that I'd inherited from them, and they sent me here. So it was really both of our decisions. But still, I couldn't do anything with my Gift until I was ten as well. It seems to be the universal age of Giftedness." Jakob cracked a smile, making his cheeks dimple again. "I really want to be a healer."  
"Not I," replied Roger. "I don't know, but healing seems boring to me. Just the idea of being a powerful sorcerer, able to do things at my will...it would make me feel like a god, I guess."  
Their conversation went on even as they filed out of the mess hall and headed toward their rooms, until Rondi caught up with Roger.  
"You have to get fitted for robes," she reminded him, and she took Roger by the shoulders and led him the other way down the hall. Roger and Jakob waved at each other as they headed in opposite directions, and Roger hoped he'd see him and his cheerful friends again that night.  



End file.
